


Trigger Happy

by chockie



Series: Egotron Collection [2]
Category: Game Grumps
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Murdergrumps AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 08:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11460228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chockie/pseuds/chockie
Summary: Same deal as Nichijou-- collection of one shot fics, one thing per chapter, based on the Murdergrumps AU.The Murdergrumps AU originated here: http://snoo.dreamwidth.org/1259.html





	1. Mostly Subtraction

**Author's Note:**

> This was a continuation of sorts of a friend's work, the origin of the murdergrumps AU. You can find it here: http://snoo.dreamwidth.org/1259.html

The taller figure with the ponytail only squeezed around his partner’s neck harder. He only laughed, the hearty guffaws strained and choked.

”You stupid son of a bitch.” Arin sighed and let go, color returning to his white and slightly bloodied knuckles. He stood up and walked to the side, picking up an oily cloth- more of a rag of sorts- and polished his knife.

Jon’s laughter grew in magnitude. He let his body fall limply to the floor, his sweat-soaked shirt making the impact sound slightly wet. Opening his bloodshot eyes wide, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving from the sudden influx of oxygen. Flecks of blood dotted the ceiling, and Jon smiled.

“I wrecked him, Arin. I destroyed him good.”

“You don’t fucking  _get_  it, do you? That was disgusting, fucking disgusting. Depraved and needy.”

His laughter didn’t stop, though it came out as more of a bark, his throat still sore.

“No, Arin.  _You_  don’t get it. You do it for the art, for the… I don’t fucking know. You think you’re so  _high_  and  _mighty_  but you’re not. You’re just as depraved as me.” _  
_

Arin scoffed, shaking his head.

“You fucking idiot.I can’t believe I’ve been with you all this time just not knowing you do it for fun. It’s an artistic fucking expression, you piece of shit. Not a childish playtime where you get whatever you fucking want, regardless of the consequences.” _  
_

In a daze but a smile still plastered on his face, Jon picked himself up. He dusted himself off, and sauntered over to the older man. With a distinct lack of grace, almost as if he were drunk, he draped his arm over one of Arin’s shoulders and leaned over his other. Almost too gently, he caressed his side, working his arm up the small of his partner’s back. His hand finally reached what seemed to be its destination, Arin’s ponytail. It was starting to get messy, the simple black band starting to come apart.

“Are you really so  _different_ , Arin Hanson? Are we really so different, you and I?” Jon’s voice, hoarse but sweet, whispered into his ear.

“We’re both  _murderers_ , raw and browbeaten but  _ever_  consistent in our line of work…” He fell away, his limbs sliding down Arin’s body and left barely noticeably.

“I’m not a  _murderer_ , Jon. I’m… an artist, I take  _pride_  in what I do. Do  _you_? And if you really must know…” Arin punctuated his trailing sentence with a slow turn towards him, his eyes hollow, hands still clutching the cloth and knife.

“If you really must know the difference between you and I, it stands like this. Put simply, you are a brute. You  _tear_  things apart and just let  _it_  control  _you_. A beast, an insatiable  _savage._ Don’t you get it? If  _this-_ _“_ Arin picked up a small, unidentifiable red chunk as he spoke, “-is all you have to show for it… You can’t call yourself an artist.”

Jon spat on the floor, rubbing and smudging the stain with the heel of his shoe. He picked up the hammer he had used so callously before, and seemed to cradle it for a few moments, murmuring to himself, almost ignoring Arin and his previous outburst.

“You know how artists have different styles?”

“Yeah, so fucking what?”

“Well, maybe that was mine.”

“I highly doubt it.”

“Who says your  _stupid art_  has to be slow, precise, controlled?”

Arin said nothing, putting down his now polished knife down and picking up a blade. His shoulders trembled, though, enough for Jon to notice and laugh at him.

“Look at you. Did I get you? I fucking got you, didn’t I?”

He fell against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting. One hand slung over a knee that was bent, the other just flopped on the floor. His smile returned, though slightly less psychotic than it was before, but more cruel. He tossed the hammer from one hand to the other, weighing it each time in his palm. With a grunt, Jon threw it. It landed with a solid  _clang_  in a dark corner of the basement.

Arin stopped polishing his blade at the sound, and looked up. He turned and trained his eyes on Jon, slow, deliberate strides making echoes on the floor off the walls.

Once he was standing over him, he grabbed Jon’s arm and pulled him close, his face inches away from Arin’s.

“You listen to me, you sorry sack of shit. I’m not scared of death. I’m not scared of you. I’m not scared of your pathetic little rages. And I’m not scared of your stupid little threats and insults, do you understand?”

The blade held tightly between his index finger and thumb, Arin cut slowly, but deeply, into his arm. Jon grimaced- it wasn’t painful, at least not the instantly sharp kind, but it was slow. Blood didn’t flow instantly, for the cut was clean. But it beaded at the tip of the cut, seconds later, and grew, eventually getting big enough to roll down the side of his arm, slow as it reached the underside and gravity pulled it down, the splat audible to them both.

“Now, you could kill me, right here. Right now. You could pick up your  _stupid_  little hammer and bash my head in. But I don’t give a flying fuck. You’re a worthless pile of shit and right now, you mean nothing to me. Sure, once, you were the world. Now, though?”

He tossed the blade into Jon’s hand and turned away, slowly pacing away. He reached the door and unbolted it, the rust on the metal grating and making Jon wince.

“Not so much.”


	2. Sweetheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some crossover with high school AU stuff

Jon’s head fell to the ground with a sickening  _crack_. The door slammed shut, the harsh clang reverberating around and off the concrete walls.A tiny crack of light leaked through under the iron cast door, but otherwise, Jon felt alone. He pulled himself up and fell onto his butt, dragging his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them, zipping up his hoodie in the process. A tear rolled down his face and he squeezed his eyes shut, a trembling finger wiping it away. 

“A-….Arin?” His voice. There was a tremor in it, Jon could hear it himself. 

“Arin…” It cracked. He squeezed his eyes shut again, and he felt his eyelashes starting to get wet. 

He opened his eyes and wiped his face with the back of his arm. There was a shuffling sound from the corner and with evident fear, he raised his head slowly. 

“I… is there anybody there? Arin?”

Jon had already centered his small battered and shivering body in the tiny shaft of light from the crack under the door, and he turned his body to face the source of the noise. A disheveled shape made its way haphazardly towards him.

“J-…Jon… Jon…?”

It was Arin. The  _real_  Arin. But… he was bloodied too. Bruised. Clothes tattered, hair unrecognizable from the usual distinct careless swoop. His left eye, swollen. His hand… God, his hand. 

“Arin, I- What the fuck did they do to your hand, Arin, oh my god…”

Jon felt bile rising up in his throat. Arin’s right hand was missing a few of its digits. 

“J-Jon…” The older boy, the once hardass punk, was crawling, barely dragging himself along the floor leaving a trail of sweat and discolored blood. His voice was not more than a croak and once he reached Jon’s shivering body, he fell on top of him. 

“I-… I can’t feel my hands…” Arin buried his face in his friend’s shoulder, his torso leaning on Jon’s for support.

“What the fuck did they do to you, oh my god…” Jon was crying again, but openly. He wrapped his arms around his friend and squeezed him tightly. 

“O-ow… That… That hurt…” Arin winced and his eyes closed, his tense expression easing out into a more blissful one of peace. 

“Arin…?” A brief look of worry flashed across Jon’s face. “Arin… You’re… Are you awake? Arin?” The tremor had worked its way back into his voice again and Jon shook his unconscious friend. 

“Arin, oh god….” He wrapped his arms around him again and kissed his cheek softly, the metallic taste of blood from the dried up patches on his face.

 

Just then, the door opened slowly. The tiny shaft of light grew and exposed Jon and Arin’s huddled forms in the center of the dank basement. 

“Hey, lil guy, ready for some fun?” The stocky bearded man’s body was silhouetted from what seemed like glaring light from outside the basement at the top of the stairs. With big steps, he made his way down towards the two boys and looked at the smaller of the two. 

“What’s your name, cutie?” Jon smirked. A spitting image of himself, but years younger, it seemed. And a goody two shoes- so innocent and sweet. 

The teenaged boy made no effort to speak back, focusing only on his friend’s bruises and his hands trying to massage the punk’s slightly twitching body into comfort. 

“I was talking to you, sweetheart.” A bit more edge became clear in his voice and he leaned over the two figures. 

“J-Jon, sir.”

“Just Jon?”

“…Yes.”

“How  _funny_ , that’s my name too, darling." 

Jon cupped his hand around the younger boy’s face and turned it to face his. 

"C'mere, sweetie. A delicate thing like you shouldn’t be around big, dangerous men like me…” Jon giggled, childishly, and picked him up, slinging him over his shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to hide his tears again, opening one eye to watch the limp body of his battered friend on the floor grow smaller as Jon carried him out of the basement, whistling a jaunty tune. 

 

“I’m so sorry, Arin. Please…. Please be safe…” he whispered to himself, his voice hitching in his throat as he struggled not to cry.

 

…

 

_A classic horror film situation. Tied to the bedposts of an iron cast bed with shitty plastic restraints that he just… couldn’t break, chafing his wrists. His knees were scuffed and they wore his skinny jeans a little bit, but it wouldn’t be a problem. His dad could fix it or something, Arin didn’t fucking know._

_  
_If… If I get back to him. If I get out of this alive.

_He twisted his body, the black plastic restraints holding his limbs firmly in place. He glanced out the unwashed window. Rain. A thunderstorm._

It just gets fucking better, doesn’t it? 

_A flash of lightning. Another couple peals of thunder and the downpour continued in full force. He felt so alone._

_The door smashed open. A tall figure in the doorway, brandishing… something._

_“What do you want from me, asshole? Let me_ out _of this dump, you fucking motherfucker!” Arin spat at what he assumed to be his captor’s feet._

_His captor took a stride closer and the single swinging lightbulb in the room illuminated his face. Cold, calculating, harsh. Cruel._

_Arin bowed his head. A chill worked its way down his spine, and he regretted his words as a toothy smile spread itself across the man’s face._

_“You think you’re such a fucking specimen. I didn’t even have to hear you talk, I could see it in your walk. That stupid fucking swagger."_

_The man adjusted the collar of his shirt and turned to close the door slowly, making a deliberate show of locking it._

_"Piece of shit. I’ll give you this much, though. You’re cute.”_

_The ponytailed man leaned in close to Arin, his fingers touching and sliding down his face gently. In response, he turned his face away, struggling to move._

_As his slender fingers came down to his neck, his hands opened from a loose shape to an open palm, and the dim light from the single illuminating bulb shone off several thin blades hidden in his hand. With clean movements, he picked up an especially thin looking one, between his forefinger and thumb and pulled it up to his eye level, admiring the polish._

_“Beautiful, isn’t it? What do you think?”_

_Arin said nothing, a defiant look in his mascara ringed eyes._

_“All that makeup makes you look like a girl, you know.” He scoffed and flipped the tips of his fingers upwards, knocking Arin’s head back against the headboard with an audible thud._

_“L-let me go… You son of a bitch…”_

_“Don’t be rude. A guest in this house, and so rude!"_

_The blade he had admired so carefully earlier now slid down Arin’s left forearm and swirled around the tip of his middle finger, tickling a little bit._

_"H-heh…” He couldn’t help himself. It was so quiet, there was no way the bastard could have heard it, but-_

_“Oh, you_ like _it! I’m so… glad!” and the light trailing on his skin pressed down and it was so_ sharp _and his intake of breath was sharp and caught-_

_Blood, no pain yet, just blood, the uncanny feeling of watching so much blood come out from a wound where he felt no pain in his own body made him feel sick, he wanted to throw up but his lips stayed pursed and it only showed in his eyes, his eyes that were started to show his fear and he-_

_It was pressing down so hard into his knuckles, oh god, it was going to cut through it’s going to it cut through it cut through-_

_A quiet_ slop _and it slid off and fell to the floor and Arin’s mouth formed an O with a silent scream of pain and horror and he opened his eyes wide as the blade stopped moving and he only saw his captor’s eyes, his eyes so empty so big pupils only pinpricks and he was obviously insane-_

 _A smile was he fucking smiling oh god a madman stuck with an absolute psychopath he’s doing it_ again _oh god fingers fingers blood like a fucking fountain-_

_His motor functions were broken and he felt the crotch of his pants was wet and his eyes were twitching behind eyelids that were screwed shut and it was still going and going and just cutting and slicing and-_

_“Stop moving, it’s messing everything up.”_

_A punch to the stomach and another to his eye and he could feel the blood rushing and swelling and it was pounding, pounding, pounding, rushing, rushing, rushing through his head and he whimpered…_

_“I’m putting you in the basement after this, you piece of shit.”_


	3. Monday Evening

The silhouettes of two men, one slightly taller and ever so slightly skinnier than the other who loped along, and the other with his shoulders hunched, slightly shorter, slightly more stout, who plodded along, could be seen making their merry way towards the top of a cliff in the darkness of the nighttime, the only light visible being the faint shimmering of the stars and the soft constant moonlight that bathed the nature around them.

“Are you sure we should be up here?”

“Starting to have doubts now, are you, Jafari?”

“N-no, not at all… I was just thinking we might get caught out, y'know?”

“Me? Caught? Pah. How long have we been working together?”

“I, uh-”

“Fucking, I dunno, man. A few months. And you still don’t fucking  _get_  it, do you?”

“Hey man, calm your shit, I was just asking-”

“I don’t get caught out. Ever. Fucking ever. I’m careful.”

“Okay, Jesus, man. Take it easy.”

Their exchange ended and the rest of the walk to the plateau of the most popular camping spot in Cali. The magnificent view, the silence, and the sheer destituteness attracted families from time to time, but mostly teenagers (lone and in packs) and young adults looking for a good time. A demographic that both men could agree the world could do with less of.

Jon sniffed, his eyes drawn to the bright crescent in the sky. He had never cared much about people, full stop, but his partner had a burning hatred for all aged thirteen to mid twenties specifically- he never brought up why, but he made it painfully obvious. Of course, he had no mercy for anyone if they crossed him, Jon mused thoughtfully, be it children, babies, elderly people, nice people, rude people…

Hell, he said to himself in the privacy of his mind, I don’t even fuckin’ know if they have to cross him or not.

_He just picks and chooses, and bam! off they go._

The bearded man felt his pace slow a little, to accommodate the eyes that were not watching the ground anymore, but the stars, in silent contemplation. He shook his head. Maybe a little bit in disbelief, but just with a little  _tut_  of his own. 

“Then again… I don’t really care much either, do I?” he giggled to himself, the hands that appeared to be firmly clasped behind his back fingering gently the weighty hammer that was his trademark ‘brush’ of choice.

It wasn’t a minute before they heard the sound of laughter, the sounds of a fire crackling, glass clinking. Jon licked his lips in anticipation. The nearer they got, the more distinct the sounds became, a gentle glow splashed across the flattening ground. Swiftly, at Arin’s signal, they scuttled to a bush and eyed down their prey.

Three girls, four boys. All about nineteen, twenty. One scruffy looking terrier dog. No adults. He could hear his partner’s breathing speed up and hitch. They watched the little party continue with silence between them. Jon could nearly hear the gears in Arin’s mind turning as he structured a plan of attack, a strategy to stalk.

One of the boys, a short boytoy type stood up, stretched, and strolled towards them, his hands reaching down towards his crotch to unzip the fly. With a nod of silent agreement, Arin rolled his eyes and motioned his hand for Jon to move. A manical grin spread across his face, and there was a glint in his eyes that caught the moonlight. He felt amazing, heated…  _alive_. There was no warning of his arrival as he felt the familiar thrill of bringing his hammer down and hearing the reassuring crack of heavy duty steel on the bone of a skull. The sound of it shattering while the flimsy flesh that only got in the way caved easily under his force. 

The boytoy had no time to react because Jon made sure he had his brains bashed out before he could. The body with a mangled mess left for a head fell limply to the floor, making no more sound than a hollow  _thump_  and the rustle of clothing. His grin grew ever wider as he adjusted his position so he sat atop of the boy’s chest, legs to each side (it was almost poetic, he smiled to himself, that a position normally associated with sex and therefore birth, was the same position that this poor innocent soul was going to get his own body humiliated in, before God), and just briefly, ever so quickly, he glanced back at his partner watching him from behind the bush.

He caught a flicker of something that spelled out disgust, something that made his own stomach twist and bend into itself and make him feel sick, sick to the pit of his soul not because of the 'horrific’ things he was doing but because of who he was, and he faltered. The flicker was gone in a blink, and Arin wore nothing but his-somewhat intimidating- perfect poker face as if it were never there, but Jon knew what he saw, and the whitened knuckles that were wrapped around the handle of his sledgehammer trembled for a single, solitary second. But it was only that- a second, or less, for both of them, and he tried to brush it off.

He was merciless, harsher than he would normally would have been, as the hammer came down again and again, and he did laugh, just a little, just like he usually did on his own lonely excursions, but it was different. It was dry. It was emptier than the usual hollow happiness, and he noticed. He only hoped that his tall and silent partner could not. 

As the bearded man got his fill, losing track of how many times he had smashed one part of the body, of the canvas (he always tried to think of it as an art form, ever since the last time), and losing himself in the impossible joy with side effects including blood being speckled across his face, a thick crimson mist that coated his hands and the handle of his brush, and nearly no trace on his dark shirt and pants- impossible to tell in the already pitch blackness of the night and the shadows of the plant life around them cast by the fire not meters away. 

He stood up, spat on what was left of the butchered corpse, and used the heel of his workboots to rub it in, then turned back to his colleague.

Again, in silence, they moved forward. They always moved forward. 

It was the only way they knew how.


End file.
